Armageddon Conspiracy (26 page)

Brent stepped back at hearing the name. “He’s my Little Brother. Why?”

“Well, he ain’t little, and he’s got his black ass sitting in my buddy’s car right now.” His uncle hooked his thumb at the driveway. “He’s my lookout.” He smirked. “You know they’ve had these assholes sitting outside my house—well I know you know cause you had Maggie bring me that note.”

“It was her idea.”

“Figures.”

“Back this up a little,” Brent said. “How did DeLeyon get into your buddy’s car?”

“Why don’t you ask me first how the hell he got to Morristown?”

“Okay, how?”

“He took a bus.”

“From New York?”

“No, from Poland.”

Brent waved a hand in surrender. “Okay, he took a bus. How‘d he find you?”

“Went to the fire station and asked. They called me up from there. He came cause he wants to save your miserable ass. He’s apparently one of about three people in the entire United States who give a crap.”

Brent shook his head. “He’s a sixteen year old kid. You’ve got to send him home.”

“Pardon me, but Baby Huey’s eight feet tall. I can’t make him go anywhere.”

“Well, get him out of here. He can’t have anything to do with me.”

“Well, smart guy, that was my first thought, but since he’s come down here to hunt you up and since he knows Maggie’s name, this was gonna be his next stop. You think an old white man might draw some questions creeping around a young woman’s back door, what about your buddy DeLeyon?”

“Where’s your car?”

Fred shook his head. “My buddy’s car. I’m not as dumb as the later generation of my family. I got followed to the fire station.”

“You went out the back and took someone else’s car?”

“Bingo. Hopefully my tails are still watching the fire station.”

Brent sighed. “Well, you can’t just leave him out there.”

Fred scowled as he turned and went out the back door. “Finally a right answer! Anybody in your shoes better take all the help they can get!”

Thirty seconds later, DeLeyon shambled into the kitchen ahead of Fred. He wore a baggy basketball jersey, cut off shorts that reached mid-calf and a huge pair of Nike Air Huaraches. He hung his head in a self-conscious slouch and put out his hand for the ghetto handshake he’d taught Brent when they first met.

In spite of his anger, Brent grabbed DeLeyon’s bent fingers, followed by a quick bang of fists one on top of the other. “What the hell are you doing?”

DeLeyon didn’t meet his eyes. He shrugged his immense shoulders. “Hey, you know, man,” he muttered.

“Your grandma know you’re here?” Brent demanded.

“I gonna call her tonight.”

“What about school?”

DeLeyon raised his eyes and smiled. “Almost out for the year. I still got straight A’s. Don’t matter if I ain’t there a couple days.”

Brent looked away. As angry as he was, he was touched. “DeLeyon,” he said after a long silence. “I’m in some really big trouble.”

“You didn’t do it,” the boy said. “I
know
you.”

“Yeah, but being around me is a bad idea. It could ruin your chances for college.”

“I let you go down without lifting my finger, I don’t
deserve
no college. You taught me that.”

Brent shook his head. “You actually listened?”

“Seem like I did.”

“Look, DeLeyon,” Brent said, “Your belief in me means everything, but I have to do this myself.”

DeLeyon screwed up his lips and shook his head. “You ain’t guilty, but they think you guilty and they ain’t gonna give you no chance to prove nothing different. A black man know more ‘bout this than you. Don’t be trying to send me home and telling me you gonna do it all by yourself, cause you ain’t.”

Brent looked over at Fred who’d already helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator and plopped in one of the kitchen chairs.

Fred shrugged. “I didn’t go to some fancy-ass college, but one thing’s pretty clear—you got no business turning down help. I’m with the kid.”

“Look,” Brent said, feeling his temper rise. “You haven’t got a clue what I’m dealing with here.”

“I’m sure you got a great plan to take care of it all by yourself.”

“You can’t help.”

Fred’s attempt at good humor dropped away. “Aren’t you even gonna wait for Maggie?” He returned Brent’s scowl.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brent demanded.

“A little bit ago, her cousin from the deli rings my doorbell and hands me some bread with another note.” Fred got up from his chair, fished in his pocket, and held out a folded piece of paper inside a plastic baggie. “It says to keep you here, that she’s got help coming. She’ll be here soon.”

Brent felt a surge of hope, mixed with suspicion. “What do you mean she’s got help coming? Why hasn’t she called to tell me that herself?”

Fred shrugged. “I donno.” He pointed to the bag he’d put on the kitchen table when he first walked in. “But she gave me a shopping list.”

MAGGIE RACED WESTWARD OUT OF
Newark, chafing at the traffic but wondering at the same time why she was in such a hurry. After all, wasn’t she about to risk her career, maybe even her freedom, on a wild speculation? She glanced in her rearview mirror and picked out Kosinsky’s truck, and her anxiety notched higher. She wasn’t the only one rolling the dice. She’d tried to talk him out of coming, but probably not hard enough.

Everything had started to snowball around midday when Ann Jenkins came into her cubicle. She had the memo rolled in her fist and looked exhausted, like she’d had maybe two or three hours sleep in the past several days. “DeVito, if it was my call, I’d go after Biddle yesterday, but I can’t convince any of these other bastards to back us. I’m really sorry.”

Maggie bit her cheeks. “They’re making a huge mistake,” she said.
“I’ve done even more work on this and I can—“

Jenkins waved a hand for silence. “I gave it my best shot. Bottom line—nothing’s happened since 9/11, and they all think I’m paranoid. I tried, but I lost. It’s finished, and I’m too goddam tired and pissed off to discuss it any further.” She tossed Maggie’s memo on her desk then turned and left.

A moment later, Kosinsky came into her cubicle. “I overheard.”

Maggie stared at the wall and shook her head. A single tear broke loose and trickled down her cheek.

“You gave it your best shot,” he said in a gentle voice.

She wiped the tear away with an angry swipe. “I’m right!” she said in a choked voice.

“Let’s think about it. Maybe there’s some way to run this by other people.”

Maggie turned and looked at him, her eyes narrow slits. “You don’t get it! Brent’s not going to wait!”

Kosinsky’s face wrinkled in disbelief. “He’d go after the terrorists alone?”

“He’ll go after Biddle, which may be the same thing.” She wiped her other eye.

“You could always arrest him.”

She nodded.

“But if you
do
arrest him, it does nothing to stop the bad guys.”

“Yeah.” Maggie put her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her hands. “Got any ideas?”

There was a long silence, and she finally took her hands away. Kosinsky was looking at her with a wry expression. “We’ll have to blame it on the boyfriend. We’ll say we were in hot pursuit. There’s
really no other way.”

Now, as she finally exited the freeway at Morristown, Maggie’s thoughts switched to Fred Lucas. He was a poor choice for something like this—a loveable guy but a loose cannon. Still, when she’d talked it over with Kosinsky, they’d agreed they needed help, and the skills of a retired fireman were ideal.

She held her breath as she turned onto her street, afraid Brent might have departed even before Fred arrived. She’d seen it in his eyes that morning, and later she’d heard it in his voice when she’d called, his anger and desperation as he told her he wouldn’t wait any longer. His tone had suggested other things as well, but she couldn’t dwell on them until they got through the next twenty-four hours.

She let out a moan of relief when she reached her house and saw a rusted Chevrolet Cavalier with a dented bumper in the drive. Hopefully, that meant Fred had followed her orders and ditched his old Voyager minivan. She parked behind the Cavalier, took a long tube of rolled up paper from the seat beside her, and then waited for Kosinsky to pull in.

“Did the old guy do what you told him?” he asked as he climbed out.

“I think so,” she said. “But don’t call him old to his face. Fred’s prickly.”

They walked around to the back, but as soon as Maggie opened door, she froze. A hulking African American kid stood behind Fred and Brent. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

“Meet DeLeyon,” Fred said, as if it was no big deal. Maggie glared at him as she stepped into the kitchen then held the door for Kosinsky.

Once all five of them were inside and Maggie had closed the door,
the small kitchen seemed crowded to the bursting point. Brent looked toward the door. “Who else is coming?” he demanded.

“I’m it,” Kosinsky said.

“This is Steve Kosinsky,” Maggie explained. “He’s a lieutenant in the New York State Police.”

Brent eyes flicked back and forth between them. “I assume his presence here isn’t official.”

Kosinsky gave a wry smile. “No.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Your girlfriend is very persuasive.”

After a brief hesitation Brent shook his head. “It’s too big a risk.”

Kosinsky tipped his head toward Maggie. “I agree with her that it’s better than you doing it by yourself.”

Maggie stepped in and turned to Fred. “So, who’s
DeLeyon
?” she asked.

“He’s Brent’s Little Brother.”

Maggie swung her gaze. “You’re DeLeyon Jones, the high school kid?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She knew about him, that he was sixteen, smart as hell. He was slouching, but she guessed he was at least six-seven. She took in the long, bony face, intelligent eyes, lips that lifted at the corners with unexpected humor. “You get on the wrong train?” she demanded.

“Damn,” DeLeyon said. “That sound like a cop question.”

“Well, I’m a cop,” Maggie said, her voice taking on a measure of heat.

“Easy now,” Fred interjected. “DeLeyon came looking for me cause he wants to help Brent. I figured it was better to bring him here than leave him.”

“He needs to get a train back to New York,” Maggie said.

“You best put me in cuffs,” DeLeyon said. “Cause I ain’t going less you do.”

“I think he could help,” Fred said.

“Great!” Maggie slapped the counter. “Let’s add endangering a minor to everything else they can throw at us.” Even as she said it, she knew Fred was right.

“That mean I stay?” DeLeyon asked.

“No!” Brent interjected. “Sorry.”

Maggie glanced at him, noting the pallor of his cheeks. She grabbed handfuls of his tee shirt just under his chin. “Everybody here made choices,” she said, giving him a shake. “You can be grateful, but you’re not responsible.”

He looked into her eyes and finally gave a nod. Then he looked around slowly at each of them in turn. “Thank you.”

Maggie let go of his shirt, went over to the kitchen table, and started to pull the rubber bands off her paper tube. “Okay,” she announced, her voice crisp. “The official answer is that neither Project Seahawk nor the FBI are going to pursue Prescott Biddle. However, Steve and I did more homework, and we’re convinced that he’s the guy.” She stopped and looked at Brent. “More important, we’re convinced of the terrorism connection.”

“Well, let’s go kick his ass!” Fred interjected.

Maggie spun and gave him a hard look. “We’re not going to kick anyone’s ass. We’re going to do this very carefully. Biddle’s got his own security detail, and we’re pretty sure the terrorists are on his property as well.”

She watched Fred’s face as the information sunk in, and then she unrolled the satellite photographs she’d requested from the NSA.

ANN JENKINS WORKED THROUGH ANOTHER
pack of M&M’s and sipped stale, lukewarm coffee as she reviewed the duty reports. Tonight’s batch was mercifully thin because with half her staff reassigned and the others stretched to the breaking point, they had no time to file paperwork. She knew she ought to be grateful for small blessings, but she scowled. From a port security point of view, the situation sucked.

The politicos in Washington were sticking with their plan to bring POTUS to New York, and she was holding to her insistence that Project Seahawk needed to be at Condition Red. A leper would have been more popular than she was right now. Her own people were pissed off and overworked, the politicians were afraid rumors of her Condition Red would leak out and ruin the fantasy that the national security situation was under control, and the bean counters in Washington
were grumbling about all the overtime her people were clocking.

Earlier that day, the Under Secretary for Border and Transportation Security had called to remind her that she was only an
Acting
Director while her boss recovered from his open-heart surgery. The implication was clear—if she wanted to be a real Director someday, she better damn well stand her people down. Well, screw that! She ate the last M&M, crumpled the pack, and tossed it in the waste can.

She drummed her fingers against the desk, the only sound a dull thump. She glanced at her ravaged nails, but there was nothing left to chew. What she really wanted was a damn cigarette. No, she reminded herself, she was quitting.

She shook her head, fruitlessly trying to shake off the desire, as she turned again to the duty reports. She finished her review, stuffed them back in their file, and then signed and time stamped the cover page. Next, she started in on the requisition summary that showed the information requests that went to the FBI, NSA, Armed Forces Intelligence, or CIA from any Project Seahawk personnel. She reviewed them to make sure everyone was playing ball and sharing information properly, also to make sure people weren’t accessing unneeded or inappropriate material.